stock a mythological museum and a zoological garden—coursing up and down the road, and in the crisp frosty alleys of the Bois de Boulogne, drawn by smoking foam-speckled steeds, half hidden beneath ribbon panoply and high _panache_, sending silver sounds of countless bells before them, and delighting the eyes of all beholders by the sight of other _belles_, whose clear-toned voices and lightsome laugh rang not less sweet and silvery than the tinkle of their metal-tongued rivals, through the rare and sun-lit ether, as they sat, sunk in furs and velvets, with bright eyes and ruddy lips, and smooth firm cheeks just slightly mottled by the cold, beside the enviable cavaliers to whose charioteership they confided themselves. In short, the combination of Parisian attractions forbade departure, and I dreamed not of it till February had flown. Then I turned my eyes channelwards, and my thoughts to passports and post-horses, when sudden rumours reached me of eastern gales and virulent influenza raging on Britain’s shores; and of March dust, proverbially precious, but practically odious, careering in dense and blinding clouds through London’s tortured streets. This was ample excuse to linger a few weeks longer in my agreeable quarters, until spring came in earnest, and the sun was so warm, and the air so balmy, and the chestnuts in the Tuileries’ gardens, just burst into foliage, presented so glorious a mass of tender green, that, although often taking leave, I still was loath to depart. And thus it came to pass that, on a bright fresh April morning, I found myself seated in a Palais Royal coffee-house, in tranquil enjoyment of creaming chocolate, a damp newspaper, and the noiseless attendance of admirably drilled waiters.